Battling the Tide
by opshipperondeck
Summary: The Battle of the Bastards through the eyes of a normal man-at-arms.


So, this is my first take at a Game of Thrones / A Song of Ice and Fire fanfiction. As of now, it's got nothing to do with shipping, so if you're looking for that, I fear that you're wasting your time here. It's rather long, too. You've been warned.

The narrative starts slightly before the Battle of the Bastards and you're given a new and non-canon PoV-character. He's nothing special, not important, no knight, no Valyrian Steel. Just another guy to send into the meatgrinder. He's also quite a cynic about the whole ordeal, I've taken some influences from Dolorous Edd (book incarnation), though he's not as dry witted as Edd is. If people take a liking to my work, I'd be more than willing to write more stuff, maybe write another episode on Dragonstone with Jon and Ser Davos.

What else? Ah, it might not be clear at the beginning, but especially the appearances of characters are going to be a mix between the books and the series (If I'm going to write Daario, the guy will definitely have a blue beard and will not look as conventionally good as he does in the show), I'm not going to 100% faithful to either one.

Regarding shipping, I don't really know what I'm about to do. Since I enjoy writing OC's, they would more or less be bystanders anyway, so it'd be more lowkey-shipping than anything else.

Word count: 9901

Status: Finished

Disclaimer 1: I don't own the characters of A Song of Ice and Fire or A Game of Thrones.

Disclaimer 2: Rated for foul language and relatively graphic depictions of violence.

* * *

 _Oak and iron guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell. And even with the shield's guard, I'm probably dead, so maybe I shouldn't care too much._

Even without all the informations his commanders had, his prediction was accurate. Their host counted just above two thousand. The men-at-arms, levies and armored cavalry of the noble northern houses Mormont, Mazin and Hornwood only made up a fifth of their army, but many of these men were seasoned warriors, veterans from the murdered King Robb Stark's campaign to the South. They would have to be the loyalist forces' back bone, together with what little remained of fallen King Stannis' host.

 _I don't think that we should be taken into account, anyway. What's left of us? Three knights, too old or then too sick to march on Winterfell, two scores men-at-arms. Well, seems like the Gods have decided that this shall be our last day. No songs will be sung about the bravery of the losing side, no maiden will weep tears for us. There's really nothing anchoring us to this world .. but does that mean that we're free?_

It was not only the small number of trained soldiers that created the tension that the upcoming battle was carrying with it. As noted, their force was made up of around two thousand men, but the bulk of their army consisted of the most unlikely ally imaginable: Wildlings.

 _When we shattered the King-Beyond-The-Wall's host in a charge worthy of any song, these men and women were our foes. Now, we stand beside them. Can they be trusted?_

His unease regarding the men now standing beside him wasn't unreasonable, not even regarding their loyalty. It was true that many of the Free Folk were exemplar warriors, their prowess eventually matching any knight and soldier of the Seven Kingdoms. But it was also one of their foremost problems. They were warriors, raiders, not soldiers. A soldier knew how to hold a line, how to do battle in a formation, whereas a warrior fought for the glory to be won, individually skilled and a force to be reckoned with. _Not unlike Westerosi Knights, I guess._

 _They should've brought shields, though. Ned Stark's bastard should've brought a shield, too. Their pelts won't protect them from Bolton arrows. Why is it that so few people thought that it might be clever to carry a fucking wooden plank to guard yourself from arrows and swords? They're savages, I know that, but how can you survive beyond the Wall if you're an idiot?_

Their commanders had a difficult choice to make when forming the ranks. The loyalist northern forces and the few remaining southron soldiers would have paired well if they were strategically placed in the host's center, they might have even been able to ward off the first charge of the Bolton cavalry, but what would have come after that? Oaths and loyalty aside, these people were ordinary humans, not flawless knights of legend or even the famous White Swords of old. And when an ordinary man saw his flank overrun, he would panic. Thus, the commanders made the decision to mix the bulk of their host. Between every other Wildling or so, they positioned a man-at-arms, acting like a pillar for the moral of the men surrounding them. If they fell, the savages from beyond the Wall would become a wild card. They might take flight or break formation to charge the overwhelming enemy force in a suicidal manner.

 _I wish that I had plate. A horse, maybe, to sprint away from all of this shit. Just go anywhere, maybe back home. Back to my mother, to our little farm. Just living away more-or-less carefree. I should've thought about that a little earlier. Don't think that they'd let a deserter go right now, just minutes before the actual battle begins. Shame. Oh, I don't care anymore._

He moved his shoulders back and forth to make sure that the latitude of his arms was not too restricted from what he was clad in. An old but trusty hauberk over a jerkin of boiled leather, a dented half helm that left most of his face uncovered and vulnerable to any weapon and even fists, a kite shield and an arming sword with a blade that had seen better days. Finally, as many other man, he carried a dirk with him. But was everything that guarded him on this day. Maybe it would suffice, maybe it wouldn't.

Across the field, the forces of Ramsay Bolton - who had been Ramsay Snow or 'The Bastard of Bolton' for the longest time - and his Umber allies were taking formation. Another show of force? They were clearly demonstrating that the odds were stacked highly in their favour. Not only did they have the numerical advantage – the man didn't know the exact numbers and was quite happy with that -, but the Bastard's host was made up mostly of battle-hardened Northerners, not even accounting to the famous prowess of House Umbers infantry. Even their banner reflected it, as far as he could remember. An unchained, ferocious giant.

 _Talk about giants. If all this shit goes south, I might want to retreat behind our literal giant. Might buy me a few moments until we're overrun._

This literal giant, called Wun Wun Weg Dar Wun, was the only thing really going in their favour. The Boltons and Umbers might have the numbers advantage, more trained infantry, more cavalry and more archers, but .. they had a giant. One giant.

 _A giant target, first and foremost. If he's only half as resilient as he looks, his death could make way for us to flee. Gods be good, I really should have taken a piss. Why does it have to be so fucking cold in the North? I might just let it flow now .. but nah, it'll only freeze in my breeches. My pecker's cold and little enough as it is, it might grow inward if it gets even colder. I swear, if I survive this, I'll fucking_ _ **buy**_ _the next brothel I come across. Seven Hells, I don't even care if all the whores are ugly. I'll take them regardless. Thrice my age, pox-ridden, only one teat, half a face, three arms or a dragon's scaly tail. We could make it work._

"Don't get in my way when the fighting starts, little man." He didn't recognise the voice, but that meant little and less. Nearly all of the men he rode north with were dead, slaughtered by the Bastard of Bolton at the first Battle in the ice. The clever surviving ones deserted and became marauders, killing, raping and pillaging every little thing the smallfolk had left.

 _And the dumb ones returned to Castle Black, just to die another day. My mother raised an idiot, thick as a stone wall._

The Wildling who spoke to him was a huge man wearing grey furs and boiled leather underneath. It would protect him against glancing swings, that much was a given. But a stab to the heart? He'd be dead. An arrow? He'd be dying. A charging rider? Thrice dead. No matter how many scars he bore on his face and probably other regions of his body, this man likely never took part in a battle south of the Wall.

"Don't worry about that, the moment swords begin to clash, I'll be shitting myself behind a lonely tree," he gave for an answer, forcing a smile to his lips.

"Better shit yourself now, it would be a sad way to die getting your throat slit while squatting. Shit yourself and die standing."

 _What would it matter? If you're dead, you're dead. The Father and the Warrior might judge you or not. Dead remains dead. Unless you're being brought back. I wonder if that's true? I heard stories of people coming back from the brink of dead, but the Stark bastard is said to have been really dead. And now he's here, the pretty boy, begging to be riddled with arrows since a fucking shield is not heroic enough. He's not even wearing a helmet. Why the fuck is he not wearing a helmet?_

"I'll think about your advice if you think about one of mine. How about that?"

"What could I learn from a sorry little kneeler like you?", the Wildling's words might have been harsh and disrespectul, but the tone beneath suggested a little sincerity in his question.

"Two things, actually", the man said, lifting his shield that portrayed the coat of arms of House Baratheon of Dragonstone, a flaming heart engulfing the crowned stag of Baratheon.

"You see men that wear this emblem on their shields or armor, don't attack them. Same goes for the brown bullmoose of House Hornwood. If you see a giant though, cut the man down. Even moreso if they have a flayed man in a cross pattern as a coat of arms. Second thing you should do is to forget that short sword you carry in your offhand. Just grab a shield from whoever is lying dead in front of you."

"Why would I do that? Do you know how many men I killed without ever having the need of some kneeler's shield?!"

"I don't, no. Neither do I care. Do you know who else doesn't care about how many men you killed? A rain of arrows. Leather and furs won't protect you against hundreds of arrows for too long, if any time at all. Know what's worse? These fuckers over there smear their own shit on their arrowheads. You might survive the initial impact, but the occuring wound will fester and your arm or leg might be cut off to prevent further infection. Now, that's not a nice way to die, feverish and delusional while life is slowly dripping out of your body. Just grab a fucking shield and .. I don't know, bash somebody's head in with it."

The Wildling growled in response, at least at first. The man was surprised at the words that were following.

"May your Gods judge your death worthy."

 _I don't think they care. The Seven, The Lord of Light, the Old Gods. This war brought so much death and misery upon us that I think they're all fed up with it. And if they're indeed enjoying all this bloodshed, the Gods must be nuts. Don't know what'd be worse._

The time for conversation was nearly over. On the other side of the field, close to the ancestral seat of House Stark – Winterfell -, the combined forces of Bolton and Umber seemed to be more than ready to take on anything they could throw at them. In ultimate mockery, they placed crosses with burning, flayed men before them. Surprisingly enough, the effect of it was negligible. The remains of King Stannis' host had all seen people being burned alive before, courtesy of the Red Woman. And the Wildlings, if the stories they told were true, had fought the ancient enemy of all living beings beyond the Wall. They were not shaken as easily.

 _If all else fails, we might be able to retreat into the woods behind us. It's a shame that I'm standing in the front lines, though. Why do I have such little regard for my own life? Nevermind. Focus. Focus. Focus. Oak and iron guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell. Oak and iron .. what's he doing?_

Originally, the battle plan had been a rather simple yet efficient one. Wait for the superior enemy force to attack the center of their host and crush them in a pincer movement. It had been done before and helped smaller armies to deliver humiliating defeats. It included a lot of variables, though. First and foremost, the enemy force must have been on the offensive. That meant that without patience, the plan was doomed to fail. When it was made up, the man thought that the Free Folk were the most likely to act against it, charging wildly at the enemy, leaving their own formations broken and feeble. He also thought about the possibility of his own people deserting at the very last second, weakening their defense. One other possible negative outcome might have been that their center defense line would not hold long enough for the flanking allied forces to deliver a crushing blow to the occupied enemy in their middle. They might have broken through, leaving the pincer defenseless from any following attack. These were the usual dangers. An unusual one was what was currently happening in front of his own eyes.

 _He can't be fucking serious._

The man had little regard for his own experiencce. He was with Stannis at the Blackwater and survived by sheer luck as he didn't belong to the thousands upon thousands that burned within the wildfire attack. He had even more luck not to face Sandor Clegane, back then sworn shield of the boy-king Joffrey Baratheon. His luck was at its peak when he wasn't entirely crushed and run over by the relieving Lannister and Tyrell forces, lead by the lord of Casterly Rock himself, Tywin Lannister. After that, Lady Luck worked extra hours and brought him back alive and with all his limbs and teeth still functional and attached to his body from the crushing defeat King Stannis suffered against the combined forces of Ramsay Bolton and Ser Twenty of House Goodmen at the first Battle in the ice.

 _Guess that I'm shit out of luck._

By all means, he belonged to the few veterans their host had at their disposal. A commander from their ranks would have served them infinitely better. The Onion Knight, for example, would probably have made a good man to command the host. He had suffered a devastating defeat at the Blackwater and would have been very cautious, maybe cautious to a fault, but he wouldn't have done what their current commander, Lord Snow, Ned Stark's bastard, was doing right now. Riding against the enemy. Alone. In full force. _And without a fucking shield or a helmet._ It was an honourable thing to do, trying to save his brother, but it was mostly an incredibly suicidal.

"CAVALRY, ADVANCE! PROTECT YOUR COMMANDER! INFANTRY BEHIND!"

The Onion Knight was shouting at the top of his lungs. So much for their original strategy to lure the enemy into an attack. The only thing left to do was to play the hand they were dealt. Quite a terrible one.

The man witnessed the cavalry rushing to their commander's aid, the same cavalry that orginally purposed to outflank the advancing enemy. Their numbers were few and many of King Stannis' boldest knights found their death at the first battle. These men were old, feeble and sometimes sick. But they were all they had left.

Slowly but surely, the infantry sergeants seemed to have made their peace with the Gods and voices were raised all around him.

"You heard the man, you sons of ugly whores! ADVANCE!" And thus, they reluctantly began to move.

As the battle began, as the first swords began to clash, time seemed to be slowing down. It was the Bastard of Bolton himself who pierced the heart of the last trueborn son of Lord Eddard Stark with an arrow, leaving Lord Snow in a desperate position. He lost his horse to more arrows and was rendered unable to retreat. He then drew the famous bastard sword Longclaw, made of spellforged Valyrian Steel, to make a defiant last stand against the Bolton cavalry. He would have been doomed if not for the timely arrival of his own cavalry, throwing themselves against the tide.

A hundred lances and swords crashed against shields made of oak and iron, against chain, against plate, against flesh. Some of them managed to pierce riders and horses, others broke. Horses were crashing into one another, men fell to the ground and, just within a minute, chaos became prevalent. Those who could continued to fight on foot, letting go of their lances and spears in favour of sword or morning star or whatever weapon they had at their proposal. Other men had neither and tried to recklessly charge their foes with bare fists. It's needless to say that these men ended up being gutted from cock to throat.

The man wanted to believe that he didn't care if he lived or died, but the racing of his heart betrayed these thoughts. He didn't want to die. Not here, in the mud and snow. Not ever, actually. Especially not being flayed by the Bastard of Bolton himself. He didn't want a sword to gut him, there was no need to know what colour his intestines had. Yet, here he was.

 _Keep the your guard up, boy. Keep it up. Every soldier knows the trick. Keep breathing, keep attacking. Never stop breathing. You're not going to die here, not until you've slaughtered at least ten of these bastards._

The man had only vestigial training at arms at his proposal, yet in the fevered pitch of battle, it didn't matter too much. A battle of this size, and that's what people seem to forget a lot, had no room for graceful swordplay in it. Countless famous duellists lost their lives because all their individual skill was worthless when lines of infantrymen crashed into one another. There was no space to dodge an attack, swings from the sides, while possible if done correctly, had a high chance of wounding an ally instead, and that was the best of all cases. It was more likely that the swing was caught, leaving one open for a vicious counterblow. Thus, attacks from the top or stabs were the most valuable assets of a frontline soldier who had to put his trust in the men next to him.

 _Shield up, stab, block, hack. Repeat. The dancing steps of war._

To his utter surprise, he didn't die. At least not within the first charge. He raised his left arm, the one that his shield was fastened to, and deflected a blow that might have otherwise left a nasty gash at his throat. The correct response was to counterattack with a stab into his foes' guts. With not enough time to pray that the man in front of him wasn't wearing plate, he put the weight of his armored body behind the stab and drove the point of his arming sword deep into the his foe's belly. Maybe his luck had not yet abandoned him, he thought as the blade ran deep and left the Bolton soldier grunting, unable to respond.

 _No time. Tear it out. Shield up, block, stab, hack._

As surprising as it might be to some, killing an enemy soldier in a battle such as this, especially in the center of the host, was not a huge priority. Sometimes, it could take a lot of time to kill someone, especially when that person was clad in plate. In many cases, he must also be lying on the ground, his helm had to be removed or his visor opened and a dirkstab to the face was needed to finish him off. On the other hand, though, if a foe was merely wounded enough, his own brothers in arms would do the trick. These men were ill-fated, falling to the ground, becoming unconscious from the loss of blood and their own men would trample them to death. In the rare cases that they survived, they would most likely not be able to take up arms again for a long time and serve as a living reminder that war was hell, that way weighing heavy upon the troop's morals. He struck his shield forward, hitting the Bolton's face with the edge of it and wrestled the blade of his sword free.

The Bolton man was trampled to death within an instant and another took his place. The man didn't care for his looks, not for his coat of arms or anything else that distinguished him from the other soldiers. His life was just as his own, another peasant sent into the meatgrinder. The foe was on the offensive and delivered a vicious, overheaded blow against him, only in the knick of time was he able to raise his shield to minimise the damage done. Or so he thought. The strike's impact was powerful enough to send a shock through his entire arm, one that was impossible to come from a sword. He was quite lucky that the force didn't break his arm or dislocated his shoulder, but it did open him up. The enemy was about to deliver another strike and this time, he would not be able to guard himself in time. His helmet would be of little use against a mace, too.

 _GET YOUR SHIELD UP!_

His mind was screaming and it became ever more clear that he didn't want to die, yet it was useless as his left arm was still numb from from the first blow. It was all the more surprising to him that, while the mace came in contact with his helmet, he didn't lose consciousness. The attack was expectionally weak, the reason for it being that his enemy's throat was impaled by the wide blade of a short sword, crude, savage and unsophisticated. Yet sharp and pointy enough to tear flesh and bone apart.

He had all but forgotten that he didn't have to fight alone.

"Still not shitting yourself, little kneeler?!", the man to his left shouted as he tore the blade from the Bolton's throat and continued fighting his own opponent.

There wasn't enough of his breath left to answer his friend.

 _Maybe not a friend. Still better than dying next to a stranger._

Slowly, sensation crept back into his left arm. Tickling and rather painful. Still, the arm was not broken and his shoulder seemed fine. Things could have gone worse. The next foe made his way unto the breach, but before he could so much as strike, the man thrust the point of his sword into his face, bending the nasal piece of his helmet to the side and piercing the Bolton's eye. But success, especially in the midst of battle, was short-lived. It was sheer luck that his senses hadn't gone numb yet, his gaze went skyward and the words left his mouth on their own. If nothing else, the man had a battlefield voice, commanding, loud and to be taken seriously.

"ARROWS!"

He supported his left arm with his right to raise the shield above his head and went into a kneeling position to pose a smaller target for the rain of arrows that was following. Countless other men, those who heard him or those who saw the arrows themselves, did the same thing. The Wildling next to him, still without a shield, found a rather creative if not perfectly efficient solution for his problem: Grabbing the shoulders of the Bolton soldier in front of him, another one who's throat he had slashed, he knelt, too, using the body as a substitute for a shield. Not a perfect one, but it seemed to be working out well enough for him. The Wildling wasn't dumb enough to let the body too close to his body as the arrow heads might have pierced him anyway, but balanced him with both arms halfway stretched out.

Others didn't share their luck, even the ones who brought shields were not perfectly safe.

The arrows impacted in a wild staccato, piercing even the reinforced oak of his kite shield in some places. Yet they didn't pierce his arm. Lady Luck seemed to be smiling upon him.

 _Or she's a cruel mistress that wants to prolong my suffering._

Men and women cried out in agony as their flesh was ripped apart by arrow heads made of steel. They didn't care for boiled leather or furs, some even managed to penetrate chain hauberks. Bodkin arrows were a beast. But every medal had two sides, even though the rain managed to wound and cripple a number of his brothers in arms, they had an equally devastating effect on their enemies.

Bows, especially used in masses, were a skirmisher's weapon. Armies used them to thin out the enemie's ranks until the battle would be decided within melee-range (or they used a rain of arrows to stop a pursuing army). Only a commander with little to no regard for the well-being of his troops would unleash a barrage when his men were already in the fray as they usually didn't carry shields on their backs. It was darkly humorous to see that many a Bolton soldier fell to the ground, impaled by their own arrows.

Under different circumstances, the battle would have been won by now. If the opposing force felt that they were threatened from two sides, they would have routed. These men, though, as much as they might have been fearing death, they seemed to fear what the Bastard of Bolton might do to them even more. Thus, they pushed forward, climbing over the corpses of their comrades as they still had the number's advantage on their side, even account the dead and wounded. The loyalist ranks were starting to thin out as they proved to be unable to stem against the oncoming tide that was driven between them, their commander and the now mostly unhorsed cavalry that fought at Lord Snow's side.

 _We're breaking._

The thought calmly crept into his mind and didn't shake him as much as he would have expected. In the corner of his eye, he caught the glimpse of one of his sergeants. The man's head was crushed by a mace, his brain and spinters of his bones spraying upon the soldiers next to him. Without their officers, the lines would inevitably break. The men-at-arms needed guidance, the levies doubly so. And without their pillars, no one knew how the Wildlings would react. Moral was at the verge of breaking, and if it did, the battle was lost. They were too far away from the woods and the remaining Bolton cavalry would be able to hunt most of them down before they'd even be able to reach the safer forest.

 _Well, as long as one could consider packs of hungry wolves, the creeping cold and the fact that I have no provisions on me 'safer' than being killed by the Boltons. But I guess it's a lot more pleasant to get my throat ripped open by sharp teeth than getting my skin peeled off by the bastard's blades._

"Retreat!", one man next to him shouted.

' _Man' might be too much of a word. A boy so green he pisses grass. He doesn't want to die. I don't want to die. Still eight more to go before I'm allowed to. Still eight more to go._

He could nearly feel how the men at his sides were retreating, the pressure from behind, the one that pushed him forward, grew weaker by the second and the Bolton's, even thinned out a little by their own arrows, kept on marching forward. Moral had finally reached its breaking point and men's hearts grew weak.

A man's heart, though, was a strange beast. One moment, it was all but breaking, in another moment, a wondrous event might occur to change the winds of destiny. Sometimes, all that was needed was a simple thing. Words and deeds, for example, had the power to rouse resilience in even the most feeble of hearts.

Out of his mind, the man pushed forward to confront the next Bolton man-at-arms. It wasn't as much a fight as a simple show of superior force and might, one that his opponent wasn't prepared for. He didn't even try to raise his shield as he was struck with a savage, diagonal strike that bit through his leather jerkin and the underlying skin, gutting him like a fish. Seeing how the man's entrails were pouring out of the gashing wound, he couldn't quite believe that it was his arm that was responsible for it.

At the Blackwater, he had seen the Hound, Sandor Clegane, cutting men apart with his two-handed sword. But that was the Hound, he had an ugly, giant sword befitting his size, and not a simple and one-handed arming sword. Yet it didn't matter how he did it, only the fact remained was that his adversary died were he stood. An awe-inspiring show of unrelenting rage and savagery, far from the elegant and graceful swordplay of the legendary knights of old.

He could have shouted a great many things there, he might have called out to the Seven, the Old Gods or Red R'hllor, but none of these would have appealled to the bulk of their forces: The Free Folk (To be fair, the Old Gods would have appealed to them, but not himself). Thus, he made the not-entirely-conscious decision to go another way. Born near Dragonstone, he was a poor lad, yet he still remained a Baratheon-man until the bitter end. It was their words that he chose, for even the Free Folk might find a connection to them.

" **OURS IS THE FURY!** "

No one was more surprised than himself that it actually worked out. If only it wasn't such a momentary abatement. Many others took the words for their own, even a few of the Free Folk found them to their liking. Sometimes, it took only a deed and a few words to nourish the fire of battle. He witnessed his Wildling 'friend' rushing to his side, hacking away at a Bolton shield until the defenders arm grew tired and impaled him in a gruesome fashion: He shoved the blade sideways into the Bolton's body and tore it out to the side, ripping a half the man's chest wide open as a result. To the man's delight, he was following his advice and had found himself a shield. Others lived up to their example, many of them successfully. Once again, they were advancing towards their commander.

Nobody could have said how long the invigoration would have lasted, but nobody needed to as both Ser Davos Seaworth, the aforementioned Onion Knight and Second-in-Command to Lord Snow, and the Wildling Tormund Giantsbane reinforced their lines. Ser Davos brought his lightly armored archers with him, which had discarded their longbows as the opportunity for skirmishing had vanished the moment that Lord Snow charged into the enemy. The force that Tormund, who was also called 'Husband to Bears', brought, was more of a sight to behold. Not only were the Free Folk behind him well rested and hungry for battle, no, he also brought with him the giant Wun Wun Weg Dar Wun, acting as the living substitute for a battering ram.

It was quite a rare sight to see. With their forces combined, the normal infantry, the Wildlings and the lighty armored, former archers, they did what was usually reserved for armored cavalry: A foe-tossing charge, a specialty of knightly cavalry. The attacking force started this charge at about 200 metres before the target with normal walking speed, at 100 metres, the walk became a trot and the last 30 or so metres were done in full gallop. Such an assault was able to maximise the force of impact without tiring the horses and the men riding them. Only this time, there were no horses left. But it also wasn't their line anymore that was wavering and the distance between Ser Davos, Tormund Giantsbane, the man and his comrades and the opposing Boltons only measured in at about 15 metres.

The former king Robert Baratheon would have loved every second of it.

An unexpected wave of rage and lust for battle had to be ridden immediately, lest it would subside. The man surprised himself again as it was his voice that was raised, commanding the men into a murderous charge. Their numbers were still inferior, but he found it difficult to care when confronted with his boiling blood and the raging thirst for battle. The men were indeed reduced to nothing but their instincts now, a bolt loaded into a crossbow that just had to be unleashed.

"TO THE LAST, KILL THEM ALL!"

And they followed his commands. By the Gods, they did. Right in this moment, even the most feeble of men were able to listen to the drums of war again. Fighting with the fury of a force at least twice their number, they clashed with the remaining Bolton's that were standing between them and their commander and massacred them, running them over in a wave of black and grey, of pounding iron and thunderous steps. Crude and ugly swords of varying sizes were swung and impaled every poor soul that tried to fend them off, decapitating where it was possible, cutting limbs off and impaling men who fought out of fear with extreme prejudice. The Bolton's line was completely broken, order could not be restored and they paid dearly for it.

Finally, they reached their destination and reunited with their commander and what remained of their cavalry. By then, another thought dawned on the man and, as with a lonely candle in the wind, his lust for battle was extinguished

 _Why aren't they using spears?_

The question and revelation impacted on his mind as a sudden shock that nearly made him drop his sword.

Sure, the Bolton forces consisted of many battle-hardened veterans of many campaigns, the most recent one the utter defeat of King Stannis' forces and the before that, King Robb Stark's campaign deep into the South. But they must have had levies, too.

The spear is a simple yet incredibly efficient weapon. It took months, if not years, to train a single man to be sufficient with sword and shield and lance, even longer to use both of them on horseback. The training that a spear required could be counted in weeks, sometimes even days. Hold the damn thing in the general direction of your enemy and thrust from time to time. Every man could do that in little time and be useful on the field of battle.

They had reached their commander now, rushing into a trap that should have been clear as day. And it snapped shut faster than any man, let alone an entire force of men, could react. Thundering steps of hundreds, if not a thousands, of soldiers surrounded them, holding in their hands terrifyingly long spears and towershields the size of a man. Before another conscious thought could reach his mind, they were surrounded by a phalanx.

 _Fuck. Shit out of luck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

"Circle!", some man shouted the obvious thing to do. It still was what they did, standing back to back against the tide that was about to swallow them. Some wise men said that true desperation was only known when escape was made impossible, others said that an army without the opportunity to escape fought much harder. The things that occured made him think the first thing to be true.

The Bolton's ranks closed in on them, driving the points of their spears towards them.

Some of the Wildlings were the first to snap. Being cornered, trapped and still forced to fight on was a terrible thing for any man, without question. Even then, it seemed worse for the Free Folk. They were rushing towards the phalanx, grasping for the spears, but to no avail. The moment they managed to get hold of one, another pierced their bodies. Other times, the ranks of the phalanx opened for a second and men armed with short swords lunged forward to viciously stab the attackers.

The man's mind was racing, but escape was impossible. Surprisingly enough, he found solace within the thought. Lady Luck was sheltering him long enough, and even though other men would have been happy about it, it felt like a burden to him. Many times, he knew that he would die. He had made his peace. Yet, he still stood. It was .. relieving to know that luck had finally abandoned him.

 _Encircled by a mountain of corpses on one side and Bolton spears on the other. Maybe the Stranger finds this to his liking. Or he also doesn't give a fuck about us. I'll be finding out in a moment._

The phalanx closed in on them, but you could only make a circle of men so small. Bodies were pierced and no one gave a damn about them. It was a cruel twist of fate that he was close to the center, as his inevitable dead would have to wait a few seconds longer.

It was too late when they heard the shouting coming from the other side of the mountain of corpses. People had tried to climb it to escape the circle, to run away. Men were running for their lives and they were greeted by Umber swords, leaving terrible wounds on their chests and faces, hacking skulls in two and claiming more lives by the minute. Another tide arose and crashed into them, strong enough to push many more into the spears of the phalanx. The man himself lost his balance as the weight of countless men was pressed against him. Too many. He fell to the muddy ground, greeted by the sensation of hundreds of boots trampling upon his body and pushing him ever deeper into the soil. Breating became an impossibility and he let go of his sword when one too many feet stepped on his hand. He wanted to cry out in pain, but there wasn't enough air left in his lungs. He wanted to say his name. He needed it to be heard. By someone, anyone, no matter if friend or foe.

The world and his thoughts finally faded into blackness when he took another boot to the face.

Gods could be cruel, if they were even involved.

He didn't know what was happening, his whole body had gone numb and the pulling on his shoulders was as distant as a cry in the night. Yet, a wave of fresh air hit his lungs as his lungs remembered how to function again. Not through his nose, though, but his mouth. For reasons he couldn't understand, breathing proved to be impossibly difficult when attempting it through his given nostrils. His face felt swollen and the taste on his tongue was a disgusting mixture of blood and dirt. His ears were ringing and any attempt to open his right eye proved futile, he didn't even know if it was still sitting in its socket.

It took him a few more seconds until he realised that somebody had pulled him out from under the panicking men. Were they still runnin around like headless chickens? It low-key surprised him that somebody was still able to pull him out.

 _Maybe some Bolton who's after my teeth. When am I finally allowed to rest? And why bring horns to a slaughter? Getting trampled to death made me feel comfortably warm. Hope he kills me quickly, I just can't put my mind around the thought of being flayed alive._

"Still not dead, huh?!", the voice was strangely familiar, but his vision was till too blurred to get a grasp on his saviour. More horns were blown, closer to them and they definitely weren't some trick his mind was playing on him. They were real, contrary to the ringing in his ears. His saviour pulled the man to his feet and, surprisingly enough, he was able to stand. Even through the lightheadedness and the bruises he had suffered while nearly being trampled to death. He tried to catch another breath, but his nose denied him the favour.

"Next time, let me die .. I've made my peace." That said, fighting on didn't seem to be an option at all. He had lost his sword and shield, and, most importantly, his will to fight. Being so close to death made him abandon hope. And they were still surrounded on all sides.

At least with the last thought, he was wrong. He could stand freely, he could even breath through his mouth and had not yet been pierced by a Bolton spear or hacked asunder by an Umber sword. Did the enemy just leave them alone because they were broken men? Did they forget to turn their ovens off? If you had someone cornered, better kill him and not leave the survivors alone. It didn't make sense. With the charge of Ser Davos and Tormund Giantsbane, the only hope of a relieving force was blown in the wind. These were the only men they had, their commanders knew it, the sergeants knew it and even a lowly men-at-arms like him knew it. Why were they allowed to take a break now?

 _Oh .. not good._

He bowed towards his saviour, who, in turn, grabbed his shoulders to keep him standing. As one might expect, he wasn't terribly delighted to see the little kneeler vomit all over his furs, there, the pathetic contents of his stomach mixed with the fresh blood that covered him head to toe.

"'least you're not taking a shit on me, ha!"

 _That one might still be coming up. Just wait for it._

It took him the better part of a minute to get back together, at least enough to stand on his own. Wiping his right hand across his mouth, it wasn't surprising at all that the yellow-greenish colour of his vomit had mixed with his own blood. The taste it left on his tongue was rather unpleasant, to say the least.

 _Well, if the White Walkers are real, I could make out with one of them and, neither from taste nor smell, they'd tell a difference. It's something, right?_

"Retreat! Back to the castle!", someone shouted. It didn't make sense. Why would their forces retreat into the Bolton-infested Winterfell?

"The Bastard has left the field, give chase! Give chase!", another was crying. So, their commander was able to escape? That bordered on a wonder. Maybe magic. It was neither the time nor the place to think about such minor matters. A few moments ago, he was ready to die. Now, saved again, he had to make his peace all over again. All work and no play.

He instantly knew that his time was short as the thundering hooves of a hundred or more horses closed in on him again. Why the Boltons used their cavalry now instead of just closing in on them with their phalanx, he did not understand. Did it matter, anyway?

"HIGH AS HONOR!", some of the riders shouted. Others seemingly answered them.

"We remember!", not as boisterous as a battly cry, but delivered solemnly from many lips, the knights charged into the unprotected backs of the phalanx again and claimed many lives, relieving the encircled force even more. The man lifted his head to have a look at the men he thought were going to kill him and they seemed .. odd. A huge knight lead their charge, clad in bronze armor that was inscribed with countless runes.

 _He's as tall as the Hound. As tall as the Hound .._

The man's banner was following his trail, carried by a squire or another knight or whoever. Black iron studs on a bronze field, bordered and surrounded by runes. This was neither the Bolton's flayed man nor the Umber's unchained giant.

The bronze banner was not alone. Quite the contrary, many others carried .. hope.

 _High as honor .. as high as honor. They finally took up arms. I might yet be forced to live on._

Their coat of arms depicted a sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon on an equally sky-blue field. The man knew this one. It was the coat of House Arryn, the principal noble house of the Vale of Arryn.

One could not describe the following scenes as a battle. It was a massacre, as one-sided as it gets. The knights of the Vale, even though they had to travel quite a distance to Winterfell, were fresh as the day and got their enemy by surprise. Their allies, too. Nobody the man knew had expected reinforcements, the least of which coming from the Vale. They had not pledged allegiance to King Robb, to King Stannis or bent the knee at King's Landing, remaining neutral throughout the War of the Five Kings. Now, they were here, dealing the last blow to the Bolton and Umber forces, scattering them, riding them down, relieving the remaining loyalist forces.

But the battle was not over. After the intial charges of the knights of the Vale, some Bolton soldiers managed to form ranks again, in a desperate attempt to stop the onslaught. This desperate attempt cost their lives, but their spears managed to unhorse a few knights in return before they were scattered and routing. Other loyalist forces, meaning those still alive and well enough to continue the fight, were following Lord Snow by now, advancing towards the ancestral seat of his father's family, hellbent on reclaiming Winterfell once and for all.

 _I can barely stand. Whatever glorious moment is about to come for them, let them keep it. I need to rest._

The man had slung his arm over the Wildling's shoulders. "Would you be so kind as to lead me away from this hallowed field of battle, my friend?"

All around them, Bolton and Umber men threw their weapons to the ground, crying "I YIELD! I YIELD!" before being cut down anyway. Mercy and compassion were a rarity on the field, especially when it came to a grudge engagement such as this. One should also keep in mind that noblemen were usually spared because their families would ransom them later, but this being a war of extermination, it was not yet planned to leave any of the traitor families either alive or in a position of enough influence and power to even be able to ransom them. No one the loyalists got their hands on survived.

As the remaining traitors witnessed this, they kept their weapons and banded together to flee the field. Many of them were ridden down just as, with negligible casualties. It was just the man's bad luck that they had to stumble upon such a group while trying to retreat towards friendly lines. They were drunk on battle and fear, acting on instinct alone. As low as beasts, blood-crazed eyes and weapons of war in hand. They yelled bloody murder as they fell upon the Wildling and the man.

The Free Folk were warriors at heart, but even at the best of times, a single man could only fight for so long, being at peak physical condition or not. He wasn't. The battle had been too long, he had been wounded himself and, even though he cut down countless foes, his body was exhausted and the blade he still carried with him had become blunt. They fell on him like beasts, wounding him. Killing him. The man wanted to help the friend he owed his life to, but couldn't. His legs would no longer support him, the rising bile in his throat and the concussion he suffered from getting trampled on finally took their toll.

 _Least I can do to honour your memory is to die standing._

The Wildling was stabbed time and time again, in the end, he had suffered more grievous wounds than any man could. His life was still wasted and, with the imminent death of his friend at hand, no one would ever knew how valiantly he left this world. In turn, he at least managed to kill two of their assailants, ripping open the throat of one with his teeth alone, and breaking the skull of another with his blunted sword before he finally went down.

 _Four are still four too many for the condition I'm in. I think I'm going to shit myself now. But I'll do it while I stand. Hope that's good enough for you, friend. Should have asked for your name, at least._

"Rider!", one of the men shouted and they immediately turned towards the more dangerous foe. Indeed, his goddess of luck seemed to be sending men after him. Men that .. sacrificed themselves, for whatever reason. Probably one as shallow as honour.

To elaborate this, a knightly charge was a terrifying weapon on the field, especially when used against infantry. But it relied upon a mass that was strong enough to scatter the defensive lines. A single knight, no matter how well he was trained, was vulnerable to men on foot. The rider that was racing to his defense realised it too late. He had lost his lance somewhere along the initial charge and had drawn his arming sword. A clever decision, although the execution was a bit lacking. Instead of using a hit-and-run tactic, cutting down one soldier with every charge, he crashed into them, swinging his blade wildly at their heads.

He struck down two of them before he realised that his hour had come. The men on the ground did not attack him, but killed his horse. He quickly lost control over it and was buried beneath the heavy body of his armored steed, crying out in pain as his leg was broken by its weight. He did not have to suffer long.

One of the two remaining soldiers opened his visor and began to stab his face with a dirk, after a few seconds, his cries subsided. Within these seconds, the man finally forced himself to move. Idiot that he was, he wasn't moving, stumbling away from them, but towards. He might have had lost his sword and shield, but, as every other man-at-arms, he was carrying a dirk.

 _Just let me take one of them with me. Just one._

His wish was granted. The men were still too occupied with the dying knight that none of them remembered that there was another. But they should, in time.

The first Bolton man opened his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe just to cry. He probably didn't expect a river of blood sprouting out of his mouth as the man stabbed him repeatedly in the neck, just below his helmet.

His friend was quicker and jumped to his feet to defend himself with a mace, probably looking forward to easy prey. A broken, wounded man who was only armed with a dirk. He was half-right. The Bolton man greeted him with a vicious overheaded swing that targetted his head, but by sheer luck or chance alone, he stumbled to the side, letting his left shoulder take the hit. He didn't know whether it was broken or dislocated, but it didn't matter. The stumbling allowed him to close the distance between him and his foe and, trying his best to ignore the shrieking pain that his shoulder radiated, he began to recklessly stab his dirk into the man's groin.

 _At least, this one's not ever going to have children again,_ he thought, smiling the smile of a dead man as he continuosly stabbed, only to go for the certain kill after a few more.

The Bolton finally fell into the mud. And despite all odds, he was still standing, unable to use his left arm, barely able to walk, yet he was still standing. Even small victories had to be cherished.

"My .. don't .. being eaten .. crows .. worms ..", coughing interrupted the words. Even though the pain in his shoulder began to overwhelm his thoughts, he turned around and moved towards his dying friend.

"You're a tough son of a bitch .."

"Burn .. body .. no crows .. worms .."

Kneeling down next to him, he felt every bit of persistence leave his body. He might rest here, die here, too.

 _Can't you just let me go? Why do you have to have a dying request?_

The light within the Wildling's eyes faded away and his soul moved to the next world. If there was one, that is.

 _Guess I owe you that one. Still haven't shit myself, just so you know._

This was neither the time nor was his body in any condition to carry someone off the battlefield, though. Thus was it that he had to force himself up again, walking the few metres towards the fallen knight, closing his visor as to not let anyone see his maimed face and taking his sword for his own.

 _Die standing. Right. Maybe. Sounds like a good thing to do. Not being flayed. Or stabbed in the face. Just succumb to your wounds. 'tis a good thing. Sounds painless._

It soon became obvious that the Gods didn't plan on letting him go without pain. The ringing in his ears became louder, as did the pain that was coming from his injured shoulder. Everyone who might have seen him must have thought him an idiot. His nose broken, his shoulder broken or dislocated, his head dizzy, he held the knight's sword in his right hand and leaned on it to support his body. Just to keep him standing, helping out in what turned out as a silent vigil over the two men who saved his life.

 _Damn shoulder .. good thing though .. that I jerk it with my right hand._

Soon after, the remaining Bolton soldiers had either been taken care of or managed to flee the fields, maybe into the woods where the wolves would take care of them. Others might try to pose as loyalist soldiers. He couldn't care less. The weather was getting colder again and he was barely able to feel any part of his body, let alone keep standing. But he did, even as a small group of Vale knights approached and hailed him.

"Ser, how did the man you're guarding find his end?", their supposed leader asked him, opening his visor.

 _Actually, I'm not guarding his bloody corpse, but the one of a Wildling. Not a clever thing to say, I guess._

"I'm no knight. And this one rushed to our aid when we were attacked by Bolton deserters. Took tw- .. three of them with him before they managed to kill his horse."

The knights dismounted and went to their fallen friend, and together they were strong enough to lift the animal's carcass off of his lifeless body. Again, their leader spoke to the man.

"Judging by his coat of arms, you have been saved and stood vigil over Ser Rowann Stone. A bastard he might have been, nevertheless he was a valiant knight who lived up to the word to his fullest. It was valiant of you not to leave the field, but instead guard Ser Rowann's body. On behalf of his young wife, I thank you dearly."

 _Still not the best time to tell them that I just guarded a Wildling, isn't it? Might aswell just go with it._

His voice, as the rest of his body, was weakened by the ordeals he had to suffer through. Nonetheless, he tried his best.

"The man gave his life for me when he could have waited for reinforcements. 't was the least I could do, Ser. I .. I guess you might want his sword sent to his family, then", he wasn't entirely sure if he would be able to stand without it, but maybe long enough until the knights were gone?

"It does not make for a good song to have a valiant knight give his life for a lowly man-at-arms", another Vale man said.

 _Nothing I have seen and done today would make for a good song. Unless the courts these days are into getting trampled to death or gutted from belly to throat. Or getting repeatedly stabbed in the cock. Maybe they like burning, flayed men._

"What would you propose, Ser Varris?", the leader turned around to his companion. He opened his visor and gave way to look at his scarred, wrinkled face. His brown eyes were fixed on the man, inspecting him inquisitively.

"This one looks as if the Stranger is already around the corner for him. If that is indeed the case, we could at least make sure that he passes over as worthy and honoured in death as he acted within the last moments of his life."

"A splendid thought. And the least we could do, I assume. Tell me, what is your name?", he turned towards the man again, unsheathing his sword.

 _That's it, then. At least he's a knight and will know how to make my passing as painless as possible._

"Kennit." _Of Whoisitandwhocares._

"Kneel, Kennit."

And kneel he did, even though every movement made his body ache and cry out in pain. They hadn't taken the sword from him, at least, so he could lean on the crossguard and support his upper body while driving the blade a few centimeters deeper into the ground until it hit the frozen parts.

To his suprise, the knight didn't decapitate him. Instead, he felt the blade touching his right shoulder.

"Kennit, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave." The blade moved to his left shoulder and even the light touch of this slender blade sent a wave of pain through his body. He bit his tongue to fight it down. "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just." It came back to his right shoulder. "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent." The blade wandered again, this time though, he was a little prepared for the pain to come. "In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women." The sword's tip touched his right shoulder. "In the name of the Smith I charge you to right all wrongs." A moment passed and he felt as if his body would finally subside to all the pain. It didn't. "In the name of the Crown I charge you to bring guidance to the lost." Finally, the blade touched his right shoulder for what should be the last time. "And in the name of the Stranger I charge you to be fearless in the face of death." His solemn voice continued.

"Kennit, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"

 _I guess?_

"I swear it", was the answer he actually gave. His voice little more than a whisper. Yet it still sufficed.

"Rise, then, as Ser Kennit of the Icy Fields."

Any knight can make a knight.

 _Doesn't change a thing about the fact that I might still be dying, don't have a horse or a fief and no liege lord. Maybe it's sufficient for a knight to not have shat himself when receiving his knighthood, though._


End file.
